Tag Archives: Miranda Kerr

“What you’re thinking… you are becoming,” he said, holding too lengthy of a pause for an effect.

What he wasn’t realizing was that the habit of breaking-up his thoughts with these loaded silences shot down any effect he was aiming for: It deflated the importance of his statements, and any urgency in his inspirational speech — to a room full of actors — was going out of the windows.

Although, come to think of it, there weren’t any windows in the joint at all: We were packed into a black-box theatre of a classroom, like an army of revolutionaries planning a revolt in a basement, somewhere in the jungles of South America. Everyone was an artist of sorts; quite a few writers — and even a spoken word poetess (she was rad!).

There was a handful of newbies in the room: You could tell by the way they surveyed everyone with their impressionable and somehow petrified glances. (Oh, to be new to the chaos of LA! I wouldn’t want to relive that joy.) The rest of us — were seasoned residents of the city, not yet veterans of the industry. But we had all been around the block by now — around several blocks, actually, in search of casting spaces and parking spots.

Some seemed jaded, and they sized-up all the previous speakers while never uncrossing their arms for the entirety of a 2-hour lecture. There were some that loved to hear the sound of their voice; so, every question of theirs turned into a tiny, brooding monologue. An older actress from Chicago, a bit tipsy from the free wine, had been hollering from the front row as if she were listening to gospel: Such humanity! (She was rad!)

Pretty girls — of those, there was plenty. That’s the one thing guaranteed in LA-LA: Perpetual beauty that either humbles and inspires — or saddens with its dispensability.

Anyway, he was saying:

“What you’re thinking… you are becoming.”

The guy was quite tall, slightly on the stocky side. His non-immaculately white shirt was untucked, with its top half unbuttoned down to his undershirt, also non-white. He wore jeans and insecurities galore.

Half way through the evening, he took over the job of announcing the speakers from the evening’s MC.

“Who IS this guy?” I caught myself thinking every time he got up, lingered by the director’s chair in the middle of the stage and hogged our time with his prolonged, miserable pauses.

Standing in the corner of a packed room, I had been studying the audience for nearly two hours. There were a couple of faces I recognized. A few seemed quite familiar; but then again, as a seasoned resident of LA-LA, you begin to lose track of origins. And you catch yourself thinking:

“Do I know you?”

“Have we met in a constellation of classes and workshops happening at every minute and in every neighborhood of this city?”

“Have I seen you in a commercial, or in a waiting room for that commercial’s audition?”

“Or, have I simply bumped into you while we both circled around the blocks, in search of casting spaces and parking spots?”

A man with Jeremy Irons’ face caught my attention, in a corner of the classroom. You don’t forget a face like that. (He was rad!) But then again, I’d been around the block too many times by now — around many blocks, actually — and I had long begun losing track of origins.

“So… you just gotta…” the man in a non-immaculately white shirt was hanging onto his silences, on stage.

He made some sort of a peculiar gesture with his hand.

The speakers who had preceded him — not necessarily seasoned residents of LA-LA, but definitely veterans of the industry — were quite inspiring. Passionate, eccentric and honest, they had spoken of their love for the art — and their advocacy of the artists. They — were rad!

It’s an unusual thing here, in this city. Back in New York, packed into black-box theaters, one comes to expect talks about the art of it all. Because there, we prefer to be think of ourselves as craftsmen — artists of sorts — not businesspeople.

But in LA-LA — it’s all about the business! And in a constellation of classes and workshops happening at every minute and in every neighborhood of this city, we agree to collect the crumbs of information qualified as networking.

“Because you never know!” they tell us.

So, you learn to surrender. You better!

You better surrender to the unexplainable chaos of the industry. You better learn to accept yourself as a seasoned resident of this city. You better let go of all expectations and stop counting the favors and the debts other people owe you: No one owes you jack shit!

It takes time and an open mind — to survive here.

It takes a passionate heart to keep bringing the craft into the rooms full of businesspeople; and that heart has got to keep at it, despite having been around several blocks, in search of casting spaces and parking spots.

It takes discipline and humility to become a working artist — a veteran of the industry — not just a seasoned, bitter resident.

It takes a love — for the art!

And my own happiest discovery about the business is that thankfully, it still takes GRATITUDE — to persevere.

His face, red from a lifetime of terrible diet, was boiling with outrage. Everything in the world seemed to have gone askew for him; and overhearing the routine of his ready complaints, I could tell this was not the first time he ever voiced his grief.

Quietly, I slipped past the heavy doors of this mountain spa resort and I lingered by the doormat. I had come here for silence. It wasn’t really the noise of all the others left back in LA-LA that I minded. They could just go on and on, for all I cared, about their dreams and their sex lives. About their dreams of better sex lives. As a matter of fact, I preferred they went on and on: It gave me something to write about, during the day.

But the noise in my own head was rattling my balance with an ache:

Survival. Dignity. Freedom. Art.

“I DEMAND my refund — or you’re gonna have to talk to my lawyer!” the little man was getting carried away with the routine of his ready complaints.

I had always wondered what it was like to live one’s life by fronting. It sucked, I recently thought, that we all had one hell of a time negotiating our boundaries with other people. I wished it didn’t have to be so strained, so testy. Couldn’t we just leave each other enough space and air: Enough dignity? Enough freedom? But this clan of others that lived their lives by fronting: It must be miserable to be perpetually expecting some sort of injustice.

Still though: I was fascinated. So, I lingered by the doormat.

A couple of drinkers hanging at the bar shot their confused glares in the direction the front desk: They would’ve been much more interested in getting involved had they not drank too much free wine at a tasting earlier that night. Or maybe, just like me, they had come here for silence. I couldn’t see the bartender. The lounge was empty. And the only other civilian caught in the avalanche of the little man’s outrage was the nighttime clerk, at the front desk.

I had seen her early in the morning when I arrived, and she graciously allowed for my early check-in. Her kind smile reminded me of someone I couldn’t quite remember. A cloud of curly strawberry-blond hair framed her freckled face, down to her collar bone, and it suited her well.

It suited this place, to where many had come for silence:

Compassion.

“How late is your spa open?” I asked her, at the time.

“It’s open 24/7,” she responded.

I looked up, puzzled. I had already arrived here with gratitude, and this was causing me a bit of an overload. She smiled kindly, reminding me of someone I couldn’t quite remember.

“We’re all adults here,” she said. “Right?”

Now, she was sitting in her chair, looking down at her desk calendar as if meditating. I realized this entire time the little man had been screaming on an old-fashioned, ivory phone mounted onto the wall.

He, by now, was a goner:

“You know what?! I’m gonna call THE POLICE!”

The nighttime clerk noticed me, lingering by the doormat, and she smiled kindly. Bingo! She reminded me of someone who had helped me once through a transition in LA-LA (of which I had many, in between my needs for silence).

I nodded at the nighttime clerk. It sucked, I thought, that she was having one hell of a time surviving the avalanche of other people’s entitlements. And I wished it didn’t have to be so strained for her, so testy.

I smiled, kindly:

Compassion.

“LOOK!” the little man — that poor lost soul! — was now screaming out every word. “I’VE DONE THIS BEFORE!”

But of course: Everything in the world must’ve gone askew for him; and overhearing the routine of his ready complaints, I already knew this was not the first time he ever voiced his grief.

“Excuse me?” I said to his wife — a woman a stocky stature — who was blocking the stairway with three giant, overstuffed pieces of luggage, while she lazily scrawled through her BlackBerry messages.

The woman looked up. I had expected a scowl. A boiling outrage. Instead, she looked at me with such a sheepish apology, I wished it didn’t have to be so strained for her, so testy. And she smiled at me, ever so slightly. Ever so kindly.

Suddenly, I remembered: I had seen her earlier, at a seafood restaurant right above the roaring ocean. All the windows of the place were flung open, and not till later I realized there was no ambiance music to distract us from silence.

It seemed we had all come here — for silence — from the noises in our heads:

Survival. Dignity.

Some of us didn’t live our lives by fronting. Some of us were still prone to gratitude:

Freedom. Art.

And especially those who got caught in the avalanche of outrages by little men and women — by the poor lost souls — still deserved our:

But instead, I make Bono hush down for a bit and watch my co-pilot navigate through the unknown neighborhood with patience I am known to not possess. I’m intense, even in my mightiest lightness. We follow the neon orange signs that appear dusty and somehow tired. It’s a beach town, and other drivers aren’t in a hurry at all. Around the bend, however, I see the pillars of the 101: The cars are zooming by. Freedom!

“I WANNA RUN!” Bono is back to screaming, screeching occasionally, to get the message across.

The last text I send, before turning off my cell phone, is to my BFF — my most kindred heart in this world that has put up with my messy head and impatient soul for over a decade, without much objection. She is my In Case of Emergency; has been, since college. Sure, there have been partners before, who would take over that burden, on an adventure or two. But once they go — the job returns to my most kindred heart.

“In the name of love!

One more! In the name of love!”

Ah: St. Bono!

Interestingly, my BFF and I have rarely spoken about our heartbreaks to each other. Perhaps, it’s because we both know that even when a heart breaks — it gets better, with choice. And our choice has always been for the better parts of us.

Bono puts in his two cents:

“You’re dangerous,

‘Cause you’re honest.”

On this part of the 101, the traffic moves. It’s a two-lane construction and we all seem to be quite certain about where we’re going.

For miles and miles, I see California — and it is glorious!

Here she is, stretching in front of me like a reclining redhead, so sure of her witchcraft; with her floor-length hair spilling around her nudity like a shadow. In the fields and farmlands, I am exploring her long limbs: This girl’s got some freckles on her!

When passing through her mountains, I enter her mysterious parts: the curvatures of her hips, and the dimples on her lower back, the hills of her sumptuous behind. In between two green peaks, I am aware of my privilege: My glorious girl has just let me inside. She has surrendered. I dive. I hold my breath a little, pop my ears. I come out on top.

Bono chimes in:

“It’s alright, it’s alright! ALL-RIGHT!

She moves in mysterious ways.”

We take the onramp: 1 North. I’m in the vineyards now: In her hair follicles, behind her earlobes, heading toward the magnificent head of the State. I do love it up there, but I’ve gotta make a stop (somewhere along her clavicle, perhaps): So that I can jump out of the plane — and into the next chapter of me.

And I am thinking: I cannot wait already! And I feel so light!

We pull off onto the side of the road: Here. Finally! But if it weren’t for the single-engine aircraft that looks like it’s been constructed from scrap metal found nearby, I wouldn’t know it.

We check in with a girl next door — at the front desk. She’s skydived 87 times by now! Badass.

In a company of a giggling young lovebirds, we watch two safety videos.

Sign off our lives.

On the other side of the building where we’ve been sent to wait for our instructors, I see a handful of young boys cracking themselves up at the footage of other people’s faces blown into the hideous grins by the g-force. As these impatient souls fall out of the plane, one by one, the video plays music. But I can lipread:

“HOLY SHIIIT!”

“OH MY GOD!”

And:

“FU-AHH-UCK!”

I laugh. I feel so light, so fearless!

Can’t I just live like this forever and ever, in a perpetual state of expecting my next flight?!

On the other side of the divider, two other badasses are crawling all over the carpeted floor, putting together parachutes. And I see her — IMMEDIATELY:

She is exactly my height, small and equally as brown; with an intense face, that also resembles mine, even in the moments of my mightiest lightness. Besides a sports bra and a pair of boy shorts, she is wearing a pair of giant headphones. She’s in her head. After all: She’s got human lives in those brown, strong hands of hers.

“Yo, Eric!” she screams out and lifts up one of the headphone muffs. “Fuck the apple! Get me a Red Bull, yeah?”

And then, she’s back to crawling all over the carpeted floor: Badass! She untangles the lines, gathers the off-white nylon into her arms and dives. The cloud catches her small, brown body and it deflates, slowly.

“Vera? Um. VIE-RRA?!”

Another brown girl has been calling me over: It’s time for the gear. She is a sweetheart, but her hands know exactly what to do: Badass! She insists on talking to me the entire time, but about life and something so light and so fearless. The harness is heavy and I feel grateful for that: It weighs me down, or I would fly off, from all this lightness and love.

He’s screaming at me, with an Aussie accent: I’m the first civilian soul to meet him on the ground, and I bet if I weren’t being strapped in right then, he would kiss me, open-mouthed, on the lips: So light! So fear-none!

The instructors arrive last: They are in red t-shirts and shorts, as if they’ve just come out to play some beach volleyball. But they’re wearing the backpack-looking things on their shoulders, while carrying the white bubbles of chutes in their arms. Badasses!

One of the instructors immediately chips off and goes to grab a bite of pizza. He devours two bites.

“Um. Vie-rra?”

I look up: The badass to take me flying is heading toward us, with an already extended arm for a handshake, even though he’s uncertain which of the impatient souls on standby I must be.

I’m on the 405, northbound. Where I’m heading — is not really my kinda town, but it’s pretty enough.

Along the 405, such towns don’t seem to exist. But I could always jump onto the 101 — and go home.

HOME.

It’s one hell of a hubris to assume that I could ever even have a home. I’ve given it up, years ago, right around the time when most children cling to theirs. They reach out for a sliver of Life in college, taste it, then scurry home to regurgitate it inside their childhood bedrooms still decorated with high school plaques and the faces of their expired heros.

And they whine:

“I’v changed my mind: I am not hungry anymore. I’d rather stay home.”

In spoonfuls, I ate mine up.

And then, I asked for seconds.

How Life flooded in! And it continues to do so if I keep admitting to myself that I possess more hunger in me than most grown-up children I know.

Sometimes, my eyes are bigger than my stomach, but the ego doesn’t admit it: It just stands there, a scarecrow in the path of a hurricane.

“I can handle it!” it boasts — and when I withstand; soon enough, I ask for seconds.

The things is: You have got to keep raising the stakes! Other people won’t do it for you. You — only you! — know how much you can handle; and even if you don’t, there will be a growl in the pit of your stomach that tells you: You can! You know you want it! C’mon!

And if you don’t do it, Life will flood in on its own, without asking, but this time it will break down all the levees to shit. Then, you’ll be hustling around, trying to catch up; trying to pick up the pieces:

I pull off the road to fill up the tank. At the service station nearby, I watch two heavyset mechanics trying to decipher something on their computer. They mirror each other in the way they jam their bent wrists into the non-existent waistlines. And all this could be idilic, except this is not really my kinda town.

And then, one of the mechanic whines:

“Is it time for lunch yet? I’m not even hungry but bored outta my mind here, today!”

I keep on driving. The sunlight bounces off the gas station signs and it blinds with something called V-Power.

I jump onto the 101 after all.

HOMEBOUND.

But by god, it is so beautiful around here! After all of these years, I still haven’t gotten used to the sight of palm trees. They stick out, like gentle, goofy giraffes, and they make me chuckle with an awareness of Here: However odd or unimaginable, my Here — is very specific.

The rest of my Here sprawls out for miles. It winds up, then drops down into the valleys colored with that deep green of my former home — so deep, it seems purple — it’s breathtaking. When the roads narrow, I’m likely to slip in between two peaks.

I pass the burnt out hills: It’s the end of summer, and the drought is yet to come. So are the fires. Yet, I have never seen such a shade of orange before: It announces the proximity of possible disaster. How thrilling!

There is an occasional greenery around planned communities where all the houses look alike with their pastel colors and idilic laziness: They are — other children’s homes.

Except that these are not really my kinda towns:

My towns must be rougher around the edges.

So, these are not my kinda homes.

The PCH greets me with a marine layer that I’ve been taking for granted since leaving my home: At home, that layer is perpetual. Over there, they stumble through fog. Over there, they cope. Life floods in daily, over there; yet, still the days pass in a perpetual state of denial, unreadiness and self-pity.

But I never wanted to cope. I wanted to live.

So, I’ve given up my home, years ago.

Besides, there was nothing left over there to cling to. Life has flooded in so much, it has taken all the levees out completely; and many have given up on picking up the piece. Instead, they choose to live in ruins, until Life floods in again. And then, they cope.

But Here: Here — is where I live! And by god, it is so beautiful — around Here!

The fog is burning out quicker than I can burn the miles. The smell of the Ocean slips inside my car. I roll down the windows. Take the hair down. The Ocean is stretching until the horizon, and right past it, I think, is where my home used to be. Not anymore.

HOME. HOME. HOME.

I speed up, homebound.

Summerland.

Montecito.

Santa Barbara.

These towns are all very pretty. But they are not really my kinda towns:

How does one get back, I always wonder when on an in-bound flight to LA-LA. How does one summon herself again — for the grind, for the hustle, for the race; for the conviction? For the insanity of the dream?

Because most of us haven’t chosen to live here. No! To live here — we must.

Because this is where the grind happens, and the hustle, and the race. This is where one comes to make a name, slowly chiseling it out of some seemingly immovable matter. This is where one comes to knock on doors, endlessly, as if deaf or immune to rejection. And only after enough doors have been opened, does the labyrinth of all the unpredictable passages and dark thresholds left behind begin to make sense. And even if it doesn’t make sense, somehow one must find herself satisfied with the journey itself.

Aha: The journey.

I hear others, many, many steps ahead of me, testify to the worth of “the journey” in their interviews as very accomplished people.

“Easy for you to say!”

Right?

No. No, I never think that. By choice, I am not bitter, or skeptical. Stubbornly, I hone-in my own insecurity, so that others’ testimonies of this kind don’t set it off. And instead: I end taking their word for it, not because of my blind fandom for these very accomplished people; but because I myself have found the one journey I don’t mind committing despite the grind, or the hustle, or the race.

Oh, sure: There are days when the dream stalls a little. It sits there, rooted in nothing but my imagination. And sometimes, I am appalled at how others don’t see it my way.

“It’s over there,” I tell them, as if pointing out a thunderstorm cloud accumulating on the other side of the mountain. “Right over there — right above it all and ever so close! Don’t you see?!”

Their faces tell me everything about their own “journey”. Some get spaced out in self-defense: They’ve seen too many madwomen in this town by now to be shocked or threatened by my insanity. They aren’t even amused by it, as a matter of fact. They just want some safe distance in between. Others — the ones with ephemeral dreams of their own — try to empathize. But they can’t! They really can’t, for they’ve got too much of their own shit to do — and they just don’t have any time for mine.

“We should coffee sometime,” they tell me, instead. “Talk about it more.”

And then, there are those that have promised to love me forever. To them, my insanity is no surprise: They worship it, instead, by association. They are my comrades, equally insane and more fearless. And we have been feeding off of each other’s craziness for a long, long time. Because that’s how we get by: We compare each other’s grind, and the hustle, and the race. And somehow, because we are all insane enough to dream, it all stops seeming so unbearable.

But: How does one get back, for the in-bound flight to LA-LA?

I started itching yesterday afternoon, in the waiting lounge of the San Francisco International Airport. My fellow passengers seemed either exhausted or dreamy. Others were loud, habitually hollering at their children and spouses; yelling through their mobile devices, most likely at someone back in LA-LA and already in the midst of their grind.

A businessman in sneakers and a short-sleeved floral shirt was negotiating a sale that, according to him, all of us had to witness, while he typed furiously on his hefty looking Dell laptop. A traveling couple of colleagues at a Samsung charging station were hollering back and forth about some training workshop that had to get done before their landing; and the tiny, beat-up Indian man caught in the crossfire of their hollers, seemed utterly defeated at the discovery of his irrelevance.

“These ones don’t need to get back,” I thought, “because they never left: the grind, the hustle or the race.”

Suspended right above my own despair and denial, I continued to look around the lounge. The young, investment banker type to my immediate left met my gaze with a pressed-lipped smile: He seemed slightly surprised at his own reluctance to get back. The sleepy hippies in laid-back but stylish clothing rested all over the floor while listening to music, jotting down their dreams or looking up at the last views of The City. They seemed in the midst of plotting their return already. (Or maybe they were just spacing out. And maybe, it was all — in my own mind.)

But: How does one get back, after the in-bound flight to LA-LA?

I tell you how: You summon yourself.

At first, you summon yourself in order to bear. You summon your courage and your conviction, your memories of the dream that’s worth the grind, and the hustle, and the race — the dream that has brought you here, in the first place.

Sometimes, in the most remote corners of your heart’s ventricles, you must look for all the reasons to carry on. And you glue them together — sew the damn fucking thing, if you must! — and you suspend yourself, right above your despair and denial, and you carry on.

Step two: Summon your gratitude. Even though most of us haven’t chosen to live here, to live here — we must. But that living happens much easier — and with better dividends, in the end — if it’s committed with some grace.

And after all, She ain’t so bad: This forsaken city of LA-LA, exhausted by all the grind, and the hustle, and the race for which She continuously — and quite graciously, the good girl that She is! — makes room. Patiently, She waits for so many of us to get back, to land. And then, She must wait for us to get over all of our other cities and loves. She does. Like a good girl — She does! And She keeps taking us back, graciously.

And if you look at her with enough undivided attention, She is even quite pretty. So, I did that, yesterday: As soon as I landed, in the midst of all that room that She has graciously made for me — and for my dream that’s worth the grind — and I drove myself out to Her shore. Quietly suspended above my own denial, I frolicked in Her sand, and in Her waves, and in Her glorious sun; and before I knew it:

I don’t want to wait for a change. For a change, I don’t want to wait for a change — I want to create it. I want to make it, because I must make it — in life. Too long! It has been too long of a wait: for a change.

I had been carrying my suffering like a sentimental load inside tattered baggage I must’ve borrowed from the top shelf of my parents’ closet. When I was initially packing it up, back in the most formative years of my youth, curiously my father looked over my shoulder, handing me my items with one hand and patting the crown of my head with the other:

“You sure you’re gonna need all of this, little sparrow?” he would ask repeatedly, yet still contribute to my baggage, a handful of issues at a time.

I would get hold of his items, twirl them in my hand; sniff, taste, measure: “Hmm. Dunno!” I would say. “Might need it later.”

My youthful impatience, my childish wrath would prevent me from weighing my future load against my strength. Instead, I would get inventive at digging up some forgotten familial issues from the corners of my motha’s drawers. And with my father as my shadow, I would wander around the home I was leaving — out of my stubbornness, not my self-esteem — and take a few things off the walls and, with his help, reach for the highest, forgotten shelves of our bookcases. Instead of testing the baggage with an occasional test run, I kept on stuffing it.

“Might need it later,” I kept thinking, not even knowing that it was way too much pressure to place onto one’s “later”.

On the day of my departure for what I thought would be a better life — a better “later” — I even managed to look under all the carpets and rugs of our familial home, swooping up a few more microscopic particles into the side pockets of my baggage: Might need those later, as well.

“Oh, and don’t forget this!” motha would shove a few more things into my baggage on my way out. She would see me off at the threshold of our familial home; and every time I turned in a lapse of courage, she would wave her kitchen towel at me: A flag of Don’t Ever Surrender!

The journey would turn out to be more epic than even my youthful imagination could think up; and it would be so magnificent at times — better than I thought when I thought of my “later”. I would never come to regret the steps I had taken back then, in the most formative years of my youth; and I wouldn’t despise the directions I had chosen to follow — mostly out of stubbornness, not necessarily my self-esteem. Because in the end, it would’ve all been worth it: My life — my “later” — would be my own creation. My choice.

Along the way, I would continue to pick up a few more issues for my loaded baggage: Might need those later. And it would take the initial thrill of the journey to settle down before I would become aware of the compromised lightness of my step, the increasing calluses and the now chronic backaches.

“Am I really gonna need all this stuff later?” I would wonder for a moment, but then carry on carrying, mostly out of stubbornness — NOT my self-esteem.

And when another youthful thing would pass me with a lighter baggage on her back, secretly I would admire her step; and I would wonder about our difference. Must be a familial thing, I would conclude, then rummage through my baggage in search of an issue I could blame it on. For a moment, the blame would soothe the envy, but the weight would not let up. And I would spend more stretches of my journey in anticipation of the next rest stop.

Yes, I was getting tired. I needed more stops, more time to get up; more courage to summon that stubbornness I had been confusing for self-esteem. The load would begin to affect my choices: I would start looking for shortcuts. Better yet, I would ask other travelers for their evaluation of the course ahead.

“It’s just that… I have all this baggage,” I would explain, introducing the heavy load on my back as some alter-ego of mine.

I would begin to doubt my choices, to question if my “later” was still worth the pains. Suddenly, I would find myself wasting time on indecisiveness — a quality that tarnished my self-esteem.

It would be thrilling, though, when for a while I would be accompanied by a love. He would offer me a helping hand, and although I would accept it reluctantly, I had to notice how much easier it was to travel without baggage. Quickly, I would get addicted, if not to that same helping hand, but at least to the illusionary promise of it. But still committed to my baggage, I wouldn’t notice the burden it would be causing to my love. And when that love would depart, sometimes, I would ask to carry some of his load as well: Might need it later.

It would take a few more loves — loves that were in love with their own baggage of suffering — before I would wonder:

“Perhaps, it is time — for a change.”

Gradually, at first, I began leaving some issues at my rest stops or pretending to forget about them when they were carried by a love. And then, a new habit kicked in: Once twirled in my hands for the last time, an item would be disposed. Because rarely did my baggage prove itself worthy of my “later”.

And for a change, I began wanting to change. Not waiting for it: Not rummaging in my baggage for promises of closures or resolutions. Instead, I’ve gotten into a new habit of letting go — for the sake of change.

So, enough now! It’s time to let go, time to unload. It’s time — to change, for a change.

I personally wear it like the lavender-colored pashmina of cashmere and silk that I keep in the backseat of my car, at all times. Sometimes, I loop it around my arm while walking. Too warm for it right now, I think; but then, you never know: I might need it later. Other times, I show up all wrapped in it, and I walk by my lover’s side peaceful, perfectly sufficient, but separate. It’s my second skin: within his reach — for whatever exploratory touch he may have the habit for — but then again, it’s a barrier. A nature’s boundary. It makes up — me. It contains me: My silence. And no matter the power of empathy, no matter the reach of compassion, there is no way I would give it up, for good.

There are times when I let my companions wrap themselves in the other side of my silence, but only if they have the capacity to share my step and to adopt my pace, for a while. Most of the time, it is best shared with those that have seen me grow up. Sure, many loves have seen me change, learn, transform (because once I make up my mind to be with them — I go all in). But only the selected few — the sacred handful — have kept tabs on me for years. Many such silent walks we have shared by now, all so specifically perfect because they haven’t demanded a description. And the accumulation of these shared silences — is what makes up our intimacy.

I watch some get unnerved by my comfortable tendency for silence; and when I tell them I was born as decidedly the only child my parents planned to have, they say:

“Oh, but of course! Your silence makes total sense!”

I prefer to refrain from saying:

“But what do you mean?!”

Instead, I let them cradle their opinions, projecting their discomfort and their sadly absurd need to be right. Because a “What do you mean?!” always leaves an aftertaste of despair in my mouth. (And I am never really too desperate to name everything by its title; even it that title seems to be most truthful in the moment but only turns out to be best deserved, in the end. So, I would rather stick to metaphors. Or, I would rather leave it — to silence; leave it — in the mood to dot-dot-dot.)

But it does mesmerize me to watch others, in their silence. Most of the time, they aren’t my beloveds, but utter strangers incapable of handling solitude at all. I study their fiddling away with their radios for the best-suited background track. They click away at the buttons of their phones — their mobilized egos that promise to grant them a life — for some distracting stories in which they can tangle themselves up; as I tangle myself up — in silence. So discombobulated they are with their aloneness, so unsettled by the sudden lack of diversions from the truth, they reach, they grapple, they grasp.

There are others, much lovelier in my eyes; and in their silence, they are still curious. Surely, they must be loved, by someone, I always assume. They must be waited for, by others, at home. But in the moment of their solitude, they seem to possess the talent for temporary surrender. They sit in silence with an open mind, a ready fascination; as if the most unexpected gives them the biggest thrill. And it does make me wonder if their esteem — this comfortable wearing of their skin — comes from being so loved; comes from being waited for.

Because having a home to come back to — gives them a firmer ground to stand on. Because homecoming is always a deserving point of reference.

And then, there are the very few that dwell in silence permanently. It may not be because they are best equipped to deal with life’s ambiguity. But in the acceptance of their solitude, I find a grace so powerful, so contagious, it makes me want to interrupt it and say:

“But how do you do that?”

And I used to think that such ability for being had to have come from a healthy life and a kind past; from parents that wait for their children at Christmas with their favorite meals, loving anecdotes, and with boardgames in front of going fireplaces; with their childhood bedrooms still intact and photographs lining up into chronologies of their lives on hallway walls.

But not until I myself have learned to wear my silence without any secret desire to surrender it have I realized that it also sometimes comes from having lost too much to want to hold onto it. Because it gets too heavy, with time: all that loss and all that seeming injustice. So, I have learned let go of it, so I would never bring it into my new loves (because how can a love not fail with all that baggage in tow?).

Instead, these days, I wrap myself in silence as if it were the lavender-colored pashmina of cashmere and silk that I keep in the backseat of my car — within my reach — at all times. And I walk — alone.

And if ever walking with another love wrapped in the other side of it, through the shared silence, I tell him:

Glorious morning to you, my most beautiful creatures. You hearts beloved by me or someone else, but still: beloved! My exploring Doras and Little Princes, who sooner or later have had to grow-up — fall out of love with roses and sheep — but oh how I pray have never grown out of your childlike curiosity. “You princes of Maine… you kings of New England.” You bohemians and gypsies whose eyesight has been humbled by the size of the world, but whose souls expanded across the universe. You decent beings, with daily acts of courageous living:

How I wish for your world to be ever-so kind! How stubbornly I hope that there is enough love in your lives to give space to your mournings and strife — and to resurrect and heal you at the end, every single time! As trials and tribulations of humanity affect you via headlines or, more directly, via personal tragedies, I know your souls can summon the grace you didn’t know you possessed — and your hearts can prove to be resilient. There shall be more forgiveness, if you want it — I promise. And there shall always be more love!

This morning, I woke up thinking of my goddaughter. Three time zones away from my spoiling hand (and wallet), she is quickly growing-up on the opposite coast, where over a decade ago, I chose to grow-up myself. There, at my college, is where I met her mother — my best friend. My total BFF! My “dudette” and confidant. The Sister of My Heart. The woman of unbeatable grace, and of spirituality so disciplined, I have yet to find someone to measure up to it. It is her love — and the love of her family — that has replaced this gypsy’s lack of homeland or home. Seemingly forever — or for as long as my ever lasts on this planet — I shall continue coming back to that love, after every insignificant defeat; and every single of my tiny victories, I shall stubbornly dedicate to her.

Ten years ago, we were inseparable. Oh how many endless, pontificating walks we taken back then, along the campus of our all-women’s college! (Yep, I was of those naive feminists back then; and thank Shiva, I haven’t grown out of it!) And oh how many human emotions we thought we could deconstruct to a complete understanding, while en route to pick-up some Chinese food! The stories we’ve collected and retold, one brown mouth to another’s brown ear (or pen to paper and fingertips to a key board) — they are infinite! In a group of fellow writers and nerds, we dominated the office of the college newspaper, staying up past enough sunrises that even the campus security gave-up on hoarding us back to our dorms. (Oh, we were official! The Midnight Moths, they called us. And we demanded to be reckoned with!)

When the academic year of 2001 began, my schedule was overloaded with journalism classes while BFF was quickly becoming a computer wiz. When the news of a plane crashing into a Manhattan building popped-up in the corner of my computer monitor taken up by a QuarkXpress tutorial, I shrugged it off as just another freak accident which any self-respecting New Yorker should be able to take in stride. (And that’s exactly what I decided to be then: A New Yorker –with internships and friendships in the City, and a quickly developing sense of style, identity and womanhood.)

But then — there came another hit…

In that room, chairs were shuffled in panic. Somewhere, in the back, a classmate broke down. Recently returned from California, I was wearing too summery of an outfit; and as further headlines floated up onto my computer screen, I fiddled with the belt of my wraparound skirt. And then, there was the face of my teacher — the mentor to my aspiring journalism career — and that face was paralyzed by a lack of any comprehension or adult composure. I think she was about to cry. What was happening?

No way, was I sticking around! I was out! The first to leave the classroom, not at all interested in the consequences, I went looking for my BFF. If only I could find her, I thought, the world would not dare to fall apart on us.

I found her. On a staircase where we’ve watched marathons of Will and Grace and Peter Jennnings during our Christmas decorating stunts. I’m sure she’s seen me demonstrate some very embarrassing, sleep-deprived behaviors on those same stairs. But that day, my girl just sat there. Silent. Stunned, I fiddled with my belt: In our now decade-long friendship, that morning — would be the only time I would see her cry. And her face! It seemed I would never forgive the world for that face! For not until that day — and not since — have I seen her resemble a little girl.

She is a mother now. A mother to my goddaughter. Always inseparable, even in this experience, my girl has granted me the privilege to live vicariously — with her. And as I watch the face of her daughter (via BFF’s disciplined acts of photojournalism on Facebook), I wonder about the world that she is about to experience.

Thankfully, that kiddo is never easily entertained. Perpetually, her face looks like that of a philosopher or a writer — and she makes this Russian mama ever so proud! (I am pretty sure that if ever I am to experience my own motherhood, my child will turn out to be one of those goofy, grinning munchkins — just so that I myself learn to lighten up a bit.) With my breath stolen by that little brown face, I am waiting for her to start talking. What will she say? How will she comprehend the world still filled with misery and misunderstanding which I haven’t been able to fix for her? Where will I find the wisdom to teach her that despite the daily testaments to some terrible human behavior, she shouldn’t fear — but inherit the life of grace and love from her magnificent mother? What will happen to us all? How will I shield her? How will I endure witnessing the loss of her innocence?…

Oh, hush a bye, my little darling heart!

For love has not expired. It will never expire — if we choose. I shall show you what your mama has taught me: That no matter the acts of disappointing human behavior, love strives — still! We may be no longer innocent, but hopefully ever-so wise; wise enough to know that love — is the universal homecoming for us all.